The Return
by Rylee Jane
Summary: Coming back from the dead can make life difficult. A future fic, set nearly 20 years after OotP. You want more? You have to read it.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Return

Author: Rylee Jane

Summary: Coming back from the dead can make life difficult. A future fic, set nearly 20 years after OotP. You want more? You have to read it.

Disclaimers: It's all Ms. Rowling's, and many thanks to her for it!

Rating: Teen, at the most.

Prologue

He was cold, and hungry, and miserably sore from head to toe. He crouched in the shadows, mud covering his pants from the knees down, seeping over the top of his boots. He'd grown quite used to these conditions and it was little more than an inconvenience now. He knew what real pain was, not to mention true heartache, and this wasn't it.

He heard the squeak of a door opening just around the corner and he settled back against the wall behind him. _Two more_, he thought, clearing the last bit of sleepy haze from his brain and preparing to act. _Two more and I'm done._

A group of three men passed by the opening of the alley, their shadows brushing across the tip of his boots. They hadn't seen him, which made no difference either way. Once they were past, he stood quietly and followed them into the street.

"John Barston! Kiffron Tess!" he called out and squared his shoulders as the men all turned toward him. "I have been sent by the Ministry of Magic for the city of London to bring you in for crimes against the wizarding world. Will you come quietly?"

The third man, whom he didn't know, turned and dashed off down the road. He let the man be. The other two were all that mattered to him now. "I beg your pardon?" Barston called back, his hand fingering the pocket of his robes. "You're here for what now?"

"You heard me," he said, "Will you come quietly?"

"And what if I don't?" Tess laughed.

"Then I'll take you by force."

"You think you can, son, then by all means try it."

Harry stepped into the beam of a street light and lowered the hood of his cloak. "I'm quite sure I could."

He'd grown used to the looks of astonishment on their faces when they saw him, but it was still a bit amusing. Tess began to sputter incoherently and Barston didn't even attempt to speak. He fumbled for his wand, but Harry was much quicker on the draw. The curse hit him before he could draw and he was dead before he hit the ground. Tess turned tail and darted off down the road. Harry followed, having no problem keeping up with the overweight, older man. For all his training, Tess had apparently never learned the art of ambush, and he turned a corner and continued running. He'd unwittingly ran right into a dead end and had no choice but to turn and fight. Harry stopped at the opening to the alley, prepared to shield himself from any spells the Death Eater threw.

"No," the man gasped, cowering, his back to the wall. "NO! Please. You—You can't be! I saw you die."

"Yes," Harry said, his voice hard. "You did. And I'm the last thing you'll ever see before you die, so it's fitting, eh?"

"Please," Tess howled, clutching at the brick behind him. "Please, don't. I—I'll go with you. I'll do anything. Please just—please!"

Harry raised his wand. He didn't even bother to reply, just aimed and shot. Tess fell without a sound.

Harry's knees gave out and he sank to the ground. It was over. And a whole new hell was about to begin.

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Woohoo! Did I get your attention? God, I hope so. Go on, read chapter one. You know you want to… :D


	2. Open Arms

Title: The Return

Author: Rylee Jane

Summary: Coming back from the dead can make life difficult. A future fic, set nearly 20 years after OotP. You want more? You have to read it.

Disclaimers: It's all Ms. Rowling's, and many thanks to her for it!

Rating: Teen, at the most.

A fire crackled brightly in the large stone fireplace of the Longbottom home. 10 year-old Patrice Longbottom was stretched in front of it, reading. She was the most avid reader in the family, and dug through any book she could get her hands on with a fervor. The book she was currently engrossed in was one of the few books of charms that her mother would let her have at her age, as it never told in any detail how to actually perform any charms. She was scanning the history of the charm that allowed brooms to fly when there was a knock on the front door.

"I'll get it, Mum," she called out, standing and starting toward the door.

On the other side of the door, framed in the soft glow of the setting sun, stood a man who Patrice didn't recognize. He was wearing a black cloak, pulled tight around him, the hood pulled up against the cool autumn wind. She could just make out his face in the shadow of the hood, noticing only that he wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

He glanced up at her and gave her a small smile. "Hello," he said quietly. "You must be Patrice?"

She nodded, figuring that this man must be a colleague of her father's.

"It's very nice to meet you," he said, giving her a small bow. "I'm here to see your father. Is he home?"

She shook her head. "No, he isn't home yet, but my mum is here. Would you like to come in, Mr.---?"

"Potter," he said, "Thank you."

She stepped back to let him in, then shut the door behind him. "I'll get mum for you. Please sit down."

He didn't remove his cloak, or even take the hood down. "Thank you, miss," he said, bowing again.

She fought back a giggle, knowing that mature 10 year-olds certainly didn't giggle in front of company, and went off into the kitchen to find her mother. She was standing at the stove, preparing dinner. "Mother," Patrice said, very proud of herself for sounding like such a proper young lady. "Someone is here to see you."

Her mother turned and nodded, reaching for a dishtowel. "Okay, dear. Who is it?"

"A Mr. Potter."

Her mother stopped dead and her eyes widened incredibly. "Wha---? Did you say---Potter?"

Patrice nodded, suddenly feeling rather uncertain of herself. "Yes."

"P-Potter, you said?"

Again the girl nodded. It had occurred to her that the name sounded familiar, that she recognized it from somewhere, but she had assumed that she'd only heard her father mention it over dinner. Now, judging from her mother's reaction, she realized that there must be something more to it.

Her mother was moving slowly toward the kitchen door, her face slightly pale. It would have been comical to watch her as she skirted round the counter to peek around the door frame but something about the whole thing had Patrice a bit nervous.

Then, her mother let out a cry, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. "Harry!"

Patrice moved just enough so she could see the man still standing in the front hall. He had turned to look at her mother, finally dropping his hood to reveal a mop of unruly black hair and a rather handsome face. He smiled when his eyes fell on her mother. "Hello, Colletta," he said softly, giving yet another bow.

"But, it can't be. We thought you were---."

He nodded, his smile faltering just slightly. "I know, and I'm sorry. I do wish I could have contacted you, but it wasn't safe, for you or for me."

Her mother was still standing in front of her, blocking the doorway, her eyes stuck on the man in front of her. "Oh---but--- does--- does Neville know?"

He shook his head. "I didn't mean to surprise you like this, but--- well, I honestly thought it would be a bit funny." A large, mischievous grin spread over his face and Patrice saw his eyes twinkle beneath the lenses of his glasses. "Perhaps not."

Finally, after what seemed like hours, her mother let out another screech and flung herself toward their guest. "Oh, you rotten bastard you!" she cried, but Patrice didn't miss the grin on her face as she nearly fell into the man's arms. "Oh, I should curse you right here and now, you mean thing! We had your funeral! We buried you! We mourned for you!"

The man, who had been caught quite by surprise at the outburst, gave her mother a small squeeze, then patted her back uncomfortably. "I know, and I am sorry. It was all necessary, I assure you."

"So it---it's over?" her mother asked, pulling back to look at him. "It's all over?"

He smiled down at her. "It's all over. We've gotten them all."

"Oh thank heavens!" her mother said, wiping at her eyes. "Oh, this is---it's just too much, you know. I---I've been comforting Neville for years, telling him that--- that you died a hero. That you died to protect us, and--- and you're here! You aren't dead at all!"

Again, Mr. Potter smiled, although he looked slightly embarrassed. "Please forgive me, Colletta. I did what I had to do, you must understand that."

She nodded. "I ought to slap you in your face for putting us through that, but--- well, I suppose you had good reason for letting us believe---." She wiped at her eyes again, then smiled. "Well, Neville should be home soon and I must insist that you stay for dinner. And, since I'm sure Neville will want the whole story when he gets home, I won't make you tell it twice. We'll just wait on that." She tugged at the front of his cloak. "Now, you just take that off and I'll get you some tea. Patrice, please do clean up that mess in front of the fireplace. We have company you know. It's a wonder anyone comes here at all when the place looks like a pigsty from you children making such a mess."

She continued to rattle on, wiping at her eyes and heading toward the kitchen door again. The man pulled off his cloak and looked around. He spotted Patrice, still standing in the doorway, and gave her another smile. "Where might I hang this up?"

She shook herself slightly, realizing that she had been staring, and motioned toward the front closet. "In there would be fine. I---Let me get it for you."

He laughed, waving her off. "No need to do that, Miss. I do appreciate the offer, however." She watched as he hung his cloak on one of the empty hooks and shut the door. Then, he turned to look at her again. She blushed, knowing that she had again been staring at him, and hurried over to pick up her books from in front of the fire. As she straightened them neatly on the bookshelf, he stepped further into the room. "What were you reading?" he asked, stepping in front of the fire and stretching his hands out to warm them.

"A---a book on charms."

He glanced at her, frowning slightly. "Good heavens. Are you in Hogwarts already?"

She shook her head. "No, sir. I'm only 10. My brothers are in school there, though. Harrison is in his third year and Brighton is in his first."

"Ah, so you're just getting an early start then, eh?"

She nodded, feeling her cheeks grow warm. "I like to read. Mum won't let me read much about magic yet, so I only get to read the ones that don't really teach you anything."

Mr. Potter laughed, nodding. "Well, I'm sure she means well."

Patrice fought not to roll her eyes at how adults would stick together on such things. "It's Harry's fault," she said, sitting down on the couch and folding her hands in her lap. "He tried to do a spell once before he started Hogwarts and caught the carpet on fire. After that, Mum wouldn't let us even touch a wand again."

He nodded again, turning back to look at the fire. "Well, you'll have your whole life to do spells.

This time, since he wasn't looking anyway, she did roll her eyes. "You sound just like Mum and Dad."

He laughed. "I imagine so."

A loud crash from the kitchen caused them both to turn. Before either of them could move, her mother's voice called out, "Everything's fine, don't worry. No problem!"

The man glanced at Patrice, a look of obvious concern on his face. "Should I go check on her?"

Patrice shook her head. "No, she'll be okay. She's just clumsy sometimes."

"Ah," he said, casting another glance at the kitchen doorway. "Your father is working late tonight?"

Patrice shook her head. "No, he took Michael and Sheldon to get some new shoes. He'll be back soon, I'm sure."

"Michael and Sheldon. They're the youngest two, yes?"

She nodded, then frowned. She knew it wasn't polite to pry into other people's business but something had just occurred to her. "Mr. Potter, may I ask you a question?"

He looked a little surprised, then nodded. "Of course, as long as you start calling me Harry."

She blushed yet again. Again, she thought that his name sounded so familiar, but she couldn't imagine why, especially if her parents hadn't spoken to him in years. That, in and of itself, was why she asked what she did next. "How did you know my name?"

"I beg your pardon?" he said, raising his eyebrows slightly.

"At the door a while ago. You knew my name was Patrice. If you haven't seen my parents in so long, how did you know who I was?"

He paused, looking a bit surprised. Then, a bright smile grew on his face. "Hmm, you caught that, did you? You're quite a bright young lady."

She tried not to beam with pride. "Thank you."

He gave her a small bow of his head and, folding his arms across his chest, came to sit down next to her. "Well, I have, over the years, been in contact with a few people, and they have kept me up-to-date on what's going on with your family."

"Where have you been that you couldn't stay in contact with them yourself?"

He gave her a nervous glance. "I've been away taking care of some things."

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "That was vague."

He laughed, leaning back onto the couch. "Yes, I suppose it was."

Her mother poked her head out of the kitchen. "The tea is ready, Harry. Would you like to take it in the sitting room?"

He looked around at her, standing. "Anywhere is fine, Colletta."

Her mother, carrying the silver tea service with her, nodded her head toward the hallway. "This way." Then, she looked at Patrice. "Patrice, is your room cleaned yet?"

"Yes, Mum," she said, blushing.

"And your other chores?"

She thought about it and remembered that she hadn't yet dusted the hallway. "Not all of them."

"Well then, you should be getting on with that before your father gets home."

"Yes, Mum."

Harry gave her another smile as he passed her. "Very nice to meet you, Patrice."

"You also, Mr. Potter," she said back. She gathered the cleaning supplies from the kitchen pantry, then started to work dusting the furniture and pictures in the hallway. She realized, rather quickly, that there was a certain advantage to doing this chore now. She could hear both her mother's and Mr. Potter's voices quite clearly. She continued working as she listened to their conversation.

"Neville will be so happy to see you, Harry. Surprised, of course, but happy."

"It's been quite a long time," Harry agreed. "I am sorry that I had to deceive you both for so long, but I needed any of Voldemort's followers to believe that I was dead. For that to happen, I had to make everyone believe I was."

"I understand," her mum replied, her voice tight. "It's been---hard, for Neville especially. He counted you a brother and it was--- difficult for him."

"I'm sure," Harry said softly.

"Have you seen Ron yet, then?"

"He's out of the country, helping the twins start up a store somewhere. I've seen his parents, though. They sent an owl off to all the kids, letting them know."

"You haven't seen Ginny either?"

"Not yet. Molly showed me pictures of all their grandchildren, though."

"There are several of them, aren't there."

"Several dozen, yes."

"And--- Hermione?"

There was a long silence, followed by Harry clearing his throat. "I haven't seen her yet. How---have you talked to her lately?"

"Not for a while. She moved to France, you know? We lost touch."

Another long pause. "Did she--- has she ever remarried?"

Patrice heard her mother sniff. "I don't know. I would have thought the Weasley's would have kept in touch with her."

"Uh, no, I guess they haven't either. They--- they said she took it quite hard after I--- and she took a break from--- everything. They haven't heard from her for several years now."

"It's been---hard. For everyone. You'll have to forgive her."

"I can forgive her," Harry said softly. "It's myself that I'll never forgive."

It was just then that the front door opened and Michael and Sheldon came running in, followed by her rather hassled-looking father. "Colletta?" he called, dropping an armful of packages onto the hall table. "Hello, darling," he said, kissing Patrice on the top of her head and smoothing down her hair. "Where's Mum, eh?"

"In the sitting room," Patrice said, fighting back a grin.

Her mother came out of the sitting room, looking quite nervous. "Hello, Neville, dear. I have something of a surprise for you, but you'll probably want to sit down."

Patrice watched as her father's face paled slightly. "Oh dear. Please don't tell me we're expecting again."

Her mother laughed. "Neville Longbottom! And what if we were, eh?" She smacked his arm lightly, then motioned to one of the high back chairs next to him. "Please dear, sit down."

It was then that Michael, having squeezed passed them all, peeked around the door to the sitting room. He turned back to their parents and, in a loud voice, exclaimed, "Father, there's a man in the sitting room!"

"There is?" Neville asked, looking askance at his wife.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," she said, putting her hand on his shoulder and trying to steer him toward the chair again. "But really, you need to sit down for this one."

"Nonsense, dear," her father said, brushing her mother's hand off his arm. "Let me go greet our guest."

He moved past them all, stepping up to the door of the sitting room and pushing it open. He stopped dead, half a smile on his face. Then, he squinted slightly before his eyes rolled back in his head and he fainted dead away on the wood floor.

You've read, now please review. I have more chapters finished, I'm just waiting for a reaction to the first chapter. Let me know what you think.


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